The God Machine
by theScarlettWeasel
Summary: Science tells us that energy cannot be destroyed, only changed. What is life but energy?
1. Desperation Murmur Of A Heartbeat

A/N: I've had this idea in my head for a long time, but didn't think it was plausible enough to be taken seriously. And then I realized that it's only fanfiction! So I hope you enjoy. 

Chapter One: Like the Desperation Murmur of a Heartbeat 

_So far away,_

_I don't want to stay,_

_Get me outta here right now,_

_I just want to be free,_

_Is there a possibility?_

_Get me out of here right now,_

_This life like dream isn't for me_

The sorrow burned down his throat like fine liquor. _Nobody likes you, everybody left you, they're all out without you, having fun_, the singsong of hateful words danced merrily through his mind over, over, and over again. He was going slowly mad as his thoughts were slowly choked off by anger and anguish; he had to do something! Anything to relieve some of the pressure behind his temples.

Reaching out almost blindly, his hand closed on the crystal decanter next to him. He stood and flung it against the wall in a fluid motion, savoring the crash it made as it disintegrated into a thousand shining pieces. The glass followed the decanter, and the table followed the glass.

Within moments the room was in shambles, and Erik reveled in the bruises that were forming as he flung himself against the walls and shelves. _Bleed the pain away_, his thought hysterically while he beat his fists against the vile full-length mirror he had bought solely for Christine's use.

He paid no attention to the crunching of glass imbedded in his hands; _Nobody likes you, everybody left, they're all out without you, having fun._

Turning mechanically, his blood-shot eyes came to rest of the organ. Just the sight of it brought Christine's voice back to his mind.

_Angel of Music, you **deceived** me!_

He reached out and wrapped his graceful, red fingers around the iron poker next to the fireplace as he strode towards the hateful instrument.

_Say you love me_, her treacherous voice purred. It seemed almost to be coming from the organ itself.

"You little lying Delilah," he growled softly, raising the poker. "_I DID!_"

He brought the weapon down with all the force he possessed and smiled maniacally at the dying wail that went up as the body of the organ crunched beneath his attack.

Erik was exhausted when he finally entered his workshop; his hands leaving a bloody trail on the Persian carpets. He cast a scornful eye over the various trinkets and prototypes. His life was nothing; so let his inventions go the same route. Wielding the poker like a club, Erik moved into the room with a snarl and swung. The thousand little manifestations of his ideas crumbled instantly in the face of his anger.

_Nobody likes you, everybody left you, they're all out without you, having fun!_

The singing voice came from behind him now and Erik turned and swung with renewed strength desperate to silence its hateful words. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, in a place where sanity still lingered, Erik suddenly remembered what he was about to attack. But the internal warning came far too late; his arms shook with the impact of metal on metal.

And then everything went white, and blessedly silent.

To Be Continued…


	2. Midnight Lullaby

Another short chapter, but I felt this really needed a break between it and the introduction of the next character. Let me be clear right now. This is a time travel story following along the same physics as Donnie Darko, but with obvious changes. I've gotten a few nice reviews, and I appreciate them deeply, but I wanna be sure that people know what they're signing up for.

**Chapter Two: Midnight Lullaby**

_Dream of West Virginia, or of the British Isles_

_'Cause when you are dreaming, you see for miles and miles._

_When you are much older, remember when we sat_

_At midnight on the windowsill, and had this little chat_

_And dream,_

_Come on and dream,_

_Come on and dream,_

_And dream, and dream..._

He was standing in a library. He could not see where the expansive building ended; the forest shelves extended into shadows. A heavy, old silence filled the space, and Erik feared he would breathe too loudly and disturb the secrets kept here.

Drip.

He froze. The quiet drip came again, and he realized that it was very close to him. On the third drop, Erik looked down. He was mildly surprised to see that his hands were still bleeding, leaving sparkling spots of crimson against the stark white marble of the library floor. _I was looking for a book_, he realized suddenly. Ignoring the state of his hands, he began to walk down the rows of hundreds of leather-bound tomes. _What was it?_

He passed through row after row listening to the rhythmic 'drip, drip, drip' of his bleeding hands leaving a trail behind him. He scanned the titles as he strode, hopeing that one of them would jog his memory.

Erik was about to turn another corner when a hooded figure stepped out in front of him; he stopped suddenly in surprise and regarded him or her warily. Face hidden in shadow, the specter held out its pale hand to him.

"**You're hurt,"** it said softly; its inhuman voice coming from every where and no where in the same instant. **"Give me your hands,"** it ordered. Bewildered by the crackling energy that simmered in the creature's almost feminine voice, Erik did not move.

"Are you a demon?" he asked after a moment.

It didn't move, **"Do you know what the difference is between an angel and a demon?"**

"One is good and the other is evil," Erik answered simply.

"**And what are those concepts, but a matter of perspective?"**

He had no answer for that. The figure remained motionless, its hand still held out waiting for his. Erik took a deep breath and held out his bleeding hands to the spector.

Its arms became a blur of motion as it began to bandage his wounds. The pain was replaced with the figure's cool, feather light touches. **"You are owed an apology,"** it said suddenly.

He frowned, "Why?"

"**Your involvement was not,"** Erik could have sworn that the spector hesitated, **"_calculated_; the original equation is no longer valid."**

"What do you mean?"

The figure released his hands and raised its head slightly, giving Erik the impression that it was looking him in the eyes. **"Do you believe in...time travel?"**

"Do I believe in _what_?"

The spector ignored him, **"Trust her."** It turned and pointed to the figure of a woman moving through the shadowy aisles about a hundred yards away; Erik tried to see her features, but could not. The figure was gone when he looked back.

_None of this makes sense_, he thought staring at his neatly bandaged hands. The mysterious woman was steadily moving further away, and Erik did not want to lose her.

He had only walked a few steps when he heard a voice speak nearby, "I still don't believe that I'm not dreaming." It was clearly a woman's, and she was speaking in the most atrocious English Erik had ever heard. He glanced around but could not find the owner.

"I think the fact that we've both got bruises, proves that neither of us is dreaming. We need to figure out what to do about him; I still think we should've gone to the hospital." Another woman answered in the same ugly, flat accent.

A throbbing began behind Erik's temples; the shadows of the dark room pressed in against him. _What's going on?_ He glanced up suddenly and realized that the woman he had been trying to pursue had disappeared.

The first woman spoke again; this time next to his ear. She was speaking quickly and a deep measure of sarcasm to her voice.

"Right, good plan because the hospital loves it when you show up with a bloody mess of a man and tell them that he spontaneously appeared in front of us, but we're pretty sure that he's The Phantom of the Opera. Jessie, go home."

Erik pressed his hands to his face in an effort to keep the strange, disturbing words away. _Everything's so dark, what's going on? I don't understand!_

Darkness overwhelmed him.

_Nobody likes you. Everybody left you. They're all out without you, having fun!_

To be continued...

Constructive criticism is exceptionally helpful, and very much appreciated. I hope, Gentle Reader, that you stick with me on this.


	3. Mad World

** Chapter Three: Mad World**

_Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow;_

_No tomorrow, no tomorrow_

_And I find it kind of funny; I find it kind of sad._

_The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had._

_I find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take._

_When people run in circles…_

"Right, good plan, because the hospital loves it when you show up with a bloody mess of a man and tell them that he spontaneously appeared in front of us, but we're pretty sure that he's The Phantom of the Opera. Jessie, go home," Ben said as she crossed her arms and flashed her friend a skeptical look.

Jessie frowned deeply, "You can't keep him here Ben! This isn't one of your stories! He's a dangerous murderer!"

Bed held up her hand, "All we know for certain is that he's badly hurt; regardless of his past he needs help. And he's staying here until he decides otherwise."

"Fine. I really hope you don't regret this," Jessie declared brandishing a finger as she moved through the door. She looked back from the front porch; "I just want you to promise to call someone if you need help."

Ben nodded sincerely, "I will Jess."

And then she was alone.

Ben took a long steadying breath and risked a glance at her closed bedroom door. _I should be dreaming_, she thought to herself. _Fantastic happenings do not occur to boring girls._ _If any time requires a stiff drink_, she decided, _it's now._

Moving into the kitchen, Ben forced herself to think clearly. The man would rightfully want answers when he woke up, and what exactly would she tell him? _I was just walking home from watching the film about you for the sixth time and you just popped into existence in front of me, I guess I should be careful about wishing for things!_

Downing her scotch, Ben tossed the glass into the sink and crossed the living room again to her studio. Her eyes glanced over to the bedroom door with every other step. _The man's going to have enough shocks when he gets up_, she thought as she locked the door, _he certainly doesn't need to see the products of my fantasies_.

"_Je pense que quelques-uns répondent sont dans l'ordre_."

Ben's mind shut down. She'd guessed a thousand times about how that voice would sound. The idea of it had filled her dreams since childhood. But hearing it-oh, hearing it transcended words. She couldn't even turn to face him yet; the power, and magic of that voice had made her stone.

"_Sicherlich können Sie ebenso dumm nicht sein als Sie scheinen."_

Hearing him speak German allowed some of the blood to flow back to her brain. Taking a deep steadying breath, she turned to face him.

Even wearing a blood-spattered, ripped shirt, he radiated elegance as he leaned against the door jam. Bandaged hands crossed over a lean chest lead Ben's eyes up the black leather full-face mask framed by unkempt, black hair that hung just below his ears. Ben felt her heart stop when she met his eyes. They weren't yellow like the books said. Rather they were a warm, shimmering amber; Ben could feel herself being mesmerized. _I may as well be facing a viper_, she thought faintly.

"_De vrouw, moet er een taal zijn die u spreekt,"_ the perfect voice carried a distinct note of annoyance as he used a third language. Ben knew she should speak; she had to speak to him, but her voice had vanished the moment he had used his. He mercifully broke eye contact for a moment to glance around the room. She had just enough time to exhale before his arresting eyes focused back on her.

"_If I learn that I've been kidnapped by an idiot, I'm going to take my own life."_

Whether it was the fact that he spoke in English, or the derision in his tone, but Ben's mind kicked back into gear. "Hey," she started weakly.

His eyes narrowed at hearing her reply, "So you do have some grasp on communication," he drawled as he took a slow step forward. "Now, who are you, and where am I?"

Ben swallowed hard and cursed herself for not being a badass, "I'm Ben, and you're in my home. What's your name?" she said softly.

The serpentine eyes sneered at her, "And I am sure the honor is mine _Ben_," he said her name as though it were an insult, "I am Erik, and I was hoping for a slightly broader idea of my location."

She was secretly grateful that he was being an ass. It allowed her to concentrate. "This is Ithaca, in New York State," she explained slowly, trying to gauge how well he understood.

He cocked his head a fraction as he took a moment to think. "In America?" he asked finally. Ben nodded. "How did I get here?" his voice was as finely honed as a scalpel. Erik took another step forward. Even five feet away, he was too close for comfort.

"I don't know," she answered without thought. The piercing eyes narrowed and he moved forward again. "I mean, you just appeared out of nowhere!" Ben tried to explain while moving away from him.

"Inconceivable," That mesmerizing voice had become a growl, he continued walking slowly towards her.

Ben was being pushed back into the kitchen, "I mean it! You appeared out of thin air, covered in blood in front of me!" She couldn't escape his piercing gaze, and all too soon she backed into the kitchen counter.

"_That is_ _inconceivable_," he repeated almost snarling, and he was still moving towards her.

Ben looked around the room briefly; the phone was out of reach, and her cell was in her bag back in the living room. _Damn, damn, damn, this is not going well._ "You keep saying that word. I do'na think it means what you think it means," the quote fell from her lips without thought, and she regretted it instantly when Erik surged forward and trapped her between his arms; her back was pressed against the counter.

"Tell me what is going on," he snarled dangerously.

_This is bad. This is bad. This is bad._ Ben's mind ran in helpless circles in the face of his overpowering gaze. She had to do something to throw him off guard, or she'd never regain control, but what? She glanced around wildly hoping for any kind of idea.

Erik's hand moved like lighting and caught her jaw, bringing her gaze back to his. "I asked you a question," his eyes narrowed.

"Are you hungry?" Ben blurted suddenly. Inwardly, she kicked herself.

Surprisingly, it seemed to work. He blinked and removed his bandaged hand from her chin. "What?"

She decided to run with it, "Well you can't have eaten for over a day, and I know I'm hungry, so what would you like to eat?" Ben ducked under his arm and moved quickly to refrigerator.

Confusion danced across his eyes as he looked, really looked, at his surroundings for the first time. He looked back to Ben, who had situated herself next to the kitchen phone and knife block.

"What is this place?" he asked her again, much softer this time. And Ben was struck by the instant change in Erik's demeanor, moments ago he had radiated power and menace, and now he seemed merely lost.

Ben sighed and crossed her arms over her chest, "You're in Ithaca, New York, like I said, but in the year 2005."

To Be Continued…

A/N: Hopefully, people are starting to get a clearer idea of what's going on; and we'll get more information from the next chapter which will be from Erik's POV again. Love it? Hate it? I can't make it better, if you don't give me feedback!

Also the three phrases Erik speaks first are French, German, and Dutch and they respectively translate to

"I think some answers are in order"

"Surely, you can't be as stupid as you seem"

"Woman, there has got to be at least one language you speak"

I don't know how correct the translations are b/c I used an automatic on from the internet.


	4. Do I Have To Prove It To You?

A/N: Thanks for the good response I've been getting. Also, huge thanks to my new Beta Elaine! I'm truly honored to have the help of someone who actually understands grammer because I throw commas around like they're going out of style.

A few people have asked, so I'll just throw this out here. The name "Ben" is short for Benjamina.

I hope you like this chapter; poor Erik sure doesn't.

**Chapter Four: Do I Have To Prove It To You?**

_A new age of reason  
Brain treason to trick the mind  
What good is searching  
If nothing's there to find  
We arrive at this place  
Of no return my brothers  
Only to discover that our minds have led us away  
So far from the painful truth  
Of who we are_

Erik felt the world fall out from beneath him. _Impossible!_ It had to be some terrible trick of the mind; he hadn't spoken English in over ten years, surely he had simply misheard!

_What had happened?_ He racked his aching head for answers. Images flickered and danced before his mind's eye, but fled as he grasped for them. He remembered pain and anguish. _Christine left with that boy_, he recalled with a flash of bitterness. A few images clicked together. _I was blind with rage_, he thought slowly, _Christ, I haven't lost control like that in decades_. He remembered destroying his house, and then his workshop.

Erik's thought process froze as another image came forward. _The generator_, he realized in shock. _I attacked the generator with an iron pole, and I had the damned luck to actually live through it!_ He was again surprised by just how much God hated him; _I can't even die by my own stupidity! Am I cursed to live forever!_

Forcing himself to be calm, Erik walked himself through what he remembered. _So I electrocuted myself to the States? That's impossible; there must be something I'm missing…_

_**Do you believe in time travel?**_

The voice from his feverish dream echoed through his mind with frightful clarity. Was it possible? Could he really have been sent through time and space to over a hundred years in the future?

He glanced at the strange woman who was babbling into what appeared to be a modified refrigerator. She wore ill-fitting denim trousers, an immodest black undershirt without sleeves, and a pair of worn leather boots; Erik wondered briefly if she was trying to masquerade as a man.

The white, sterile, electric lighting of the room was not helping his headache, or his tired eyes. Looking around, he became more and more aware of how very different this kitchen was from any he had seen. Intricate devices littered the counter; he couldn't even begin to guess their purposes.

_It's true_, he realized blankly. Somehow, he was indeed in the year 2005. _2005_, the sound of the year bewildered him. _Oh you must be laughing now_, he thought scornfully to God.

"Erik?" The woman's voice cut through his thoughts; he looked up to see her looking at him in concern. "Are you alright?" she asked.

Something snapped in his mind, and frustration surged forward. "Oh, I'm fantastic," he drawled turning to face her slowly. He watched angrily as fear and guilt washed through the woman's blue eyes. "You haven't told me everything," he accused with a quiet snarl, taking a step toward her.

The stare he held her with was that of a cobra before a small mammal, and Erik knew it. He walked toward her with calculated slowness, his eyes unblinking despite the ugly light. The woman stood frozen and wide-eyed at his approach.

"I do not care how much of a man you pretend to be, _Ben_," he growled hypnotically as he reached her, "You would do well to know your place woman, and answer my questions."

Almost instantly, the woman's fear was gone, her eyes flashed with anger, and Erik remembered that, just occasionally, the small, furry, animal pushed into a corner could be a mongoose.

"My _place_?" she responded taking an aggressive step forward. It was so unexpected that Erik moved backwards, giving her the upper hand. "My place!" she repeated, her voice gaining in volume, "I'll have you know that this is _my place_! And for all intents and purposes you might as well consider me a man, because I am your equal," she was pushing him further backwards with the force of her words, "This is not the Opera Populaire," she sneered, "you have no power here!"

Time stood still for a moment as the realization of what she had just said hit both of them.

Erik's blood had run cold in shock. _How could she possibly_—and then just as quickly, fire replaced the ice and he didn't care that some immodestly dressed tart knew his secrets only that she would **_dare_** to use them against him. "What did you say?" he ground out softly with narrowed eyes.

She had paled visibly. "Oh shit," she whispered and ran from the room.

Erik didn't know where his burst of energy came from, but he was grateful for it as he flew after her back into the living room. Reaching out, he grabbed her arm and spun her violently to face him.

The woman gasped in pain and tried to pull away, but he only held her tighter. "I grow weary of your secrets," he purred dangerously, before almost roaring, "Tell me how you know me!"

"Let go of me," she responded.

He couldn't help but be amused at the equal amounts of fear and anger in her expression. "No, I don't think I will," he replied with a wicked smirk beneath his mask, moving his face closer to hers.

Fear seemed to overwhelm the anger as she leaned desperately away from his mask. "Tell me," he ordered again.

Suddenly, his world exploded with pain. Her hand had darted forward to grab his mask, and he instinctively released her to recoil away before he recognized the feint. The woman used his surprise to connect her boot to his groin; he collapsed instantly, curled on the ground, eyes shut, gasping for air as he struggled not to lose himself in the oblivion of agony.

_Clever girl_, he thought weakly.

He heard her crouch beside him, and he did not move, waiting for the next blow to fall. _You'd deserve it too_.

"If you ever touch me like that again, I'll kill you," she told him with quiet authority.

Erik didn't doubt her after that display of strength, but he could only nod in response; had he opened his mouth the searing pain that still burned his spine would have allowed him only to whimper pitifully.

"Now if you're prepared to act civilized, I'll tell you everything I know," she continued. He nodded again, and fell into a coughing fit as he fought for his breath beneath his damned mask. Each spasm of his lungs sent a new wave of agony; _you'd think after years of disuse that blasted organ wouldn't be so sensitive_, he thought bitterly.

"Have a seat on the couch," she instructed and walked away.

Moving slowly, he was able to unfold himself from the floor holding on the coffee table for support. Almost an eternity later, he settled into the over stuffed sofa and released a long, shuddering breath. _Well, that was a lovely first impression, don't you think_, his inner demons chuckled gleefully.

His eyes settled on the woma—_Ben_, he reminded himself, who had returned from the kitchen carrying a clear bag of ice, which she threw at him. He caught it without thought, and instantly became intrigued by the bizarre material, clear as glass, but nearly as flexible as cloth. It was holding that seemingly impossible bag that the strange reality of his situation struck him. _2005_, he thought in wonder; _They're all dead; everyone I ever knew is dead_. A hopeless exhaustion settled on his shoulders; _Will I ever die?_

"Are you going to put that to good use, or just waste the ice?" Ben's voice cut through his thoughts. He glanced up to catch her stern gaze; Erik's pride flared half-heartedly, but the painful throb in his groin and lower back demanded that he quit being a fool. Placing the bag gently between his legs, he hissed softly through his teeth at the numbing relief. His self-loathing was howling with mirth at his embarrassment; face burning with shame, Erik reached out to grab an oversized pillow to cover his weakness.

Ignoring him, Ben had begun to pace swiftly back and forth as she concentrated. She moved with an easy efficiency that suggested a competency and a latent power; Erik rather wished he'd noticed it five minutes ago. Eventually, she sat in the chair across from him, and spread her hands as if she were about to speak. No sound came, and her brow furrowed more deeply. His eyes unconsciously lingered on her.

To say that she was unlike any woman he'd ever seen would be an incredible understatement. There was nothing save her physical form to tell him that she was even female. Her clothing, while scandalous to his mind, did not look _wrong_ on her; in fact, they matched her masculine body language rather well.

He hadn't realized that she was looking at him until his eyes flicked up from the worn hands folded her lap and locked with hers. They remained that way for a long moment; it was a deceptively comfortable silence.

Finally, she spoke, "I really don't know how to explain this to you, so bear with me. In 1911, a man named Gaston Leroux published a book called The Phantom Of The Opera in which he claimed to tell the true story of a man who kidnapped a young soprano and held her hostage." She said the words slowly as though waiting for him to attack her again; he was too flabbergasted to even consider moving.

Ben continued, "Although Leroux claimed that his story was true, the book was considered a work of fiction and over the years it gained a steady following. What you really need to know about is the new film that just came out."

Erik was barely listening. He knew the name Leroux, but how had some romantic journalist learned about him? _Christine would not have told, it would have damaged her **precious** Viscomte's reputation,_ he thought with a rush of bitterness. The answer became clear and he fought back a scornful laugh. _Oh Daroga, you meddle even when I appear dead!_ _Perhaps you felt the need to cleanse yourself of whatever lingering guilt?_ When he figured out how to return to Paris, he was going to kill Nadir.

A sudden pressure on his knee made him start violently; he returned to reality to watch Ben pull her hand away from where she had touched him gently, "Sorry, sorry, I just asked if you had heard me," she apologized quickly.

He hadn't, and he knee tingled faintly from the unfamiliar sensation. "No, I'm sorry, I was not paying attention," he replied after a shaky breath. _Good lord, she touched me_, he thought in awe, _just as she would any normal man. What kind of cruel trap are you leading me to, God?_

"I said that you're a legend," she told him.

"What?" He couldn't possibly have heard that right.

"You are one of the most recognizable characters of my time. This story has inspired countless books, films, and plays; people can't get enough of it," she explained.

Erik snorted, "Well who wouldn't want to hear about how Beauty escaped the Beast?" he spat.

Ben held her hands up defensively, "Lemme tell you something Erik, it isn't the Beauty that makes people love the story," she replied quietly, looking down.

He narrowed his eyes, "Do not pretend to know me," he growled softly, resentment, bitterness, shame, and rage surged forward at the pity in her tone. His mind filled with visions of audiences laughing as some clownish man with a skull mask shuffled about screaming. _The makings of a fine comedy_, the demons snickered cruelly. Restraining the urge to destroy something, Erik forced his anger to cool; as he'd already painfully learned, it would serve no purpose. A deep, heavy melancholy filled him in its place. _No rest for the wicked_, the dark thought came of its own accord, and he couldn't deny it.

_What the Devil have I been thrown into? _He didn't like feeling overwhelmed, he didn't like feeling confused, he didn't like having to rely on a person he didn't know, and he **_sure as hell_** didn't like having to do all three at once.

Looking down, he suddenly realized that his trousers were soaked. _Fine, perfect, fan-bleeding-tastic_, he thought with frown as he stood and surveyed the large wet patch. _What am I supposed to do with a bag of water?_

Ben stood with him, "Here I'll take care of that," she offered. Erik held out the bag to her; her fingers grazed his hand as she took it. He had to be dreaming; how else could he explain a woman touching him _twice_ as if it were nothing at all?

He followed her as she dropped the strange bag into the sink. "Look," she began turning to face him again, "I wanted to apologize for," she waved a hand in the general area of his groin, "uh, everything," she finished awkwardly.

He couldn't stop a smirk forming beneath his mask.

"I don't know if I'm insane, or dreaming, or stuck in some celestial _thing_," she continued mirroring his own thoughts, "but either way, there's nothing to be done tonight."

Erik could see no reason to object, so he followed the rapidly moving woman through the door adjacent to the room in which he had initially awoken.

This new room was plainly but comfortably furnished. He listened with half an ear as Ben pointed out the bathroom that they would share and then mentioned something about a shower in the morning. Erik didn't care if it rained or not. His focus was on the bed; just seeing it increased his exhaustion ten fold, and it teased him now as his host insisted on naming and pointing out every minute detail.

"Thank you," he cut her off suddenly, "I'll be fine." He noted that Ben seemed more relieved than hurt that he had interrupted her; _Perhaps she knew she was babbling_, he thought apathetically as she bid him good night.

As soon as she was gone, Erik lowered the harsh light in the room to a much more tolerable level. His eyes had been on the verge of watering under so much electric lighting. _It may be practical, but certainly not as comfortable as gaslight_. He snorted in scornful amusement at himself; _Look how old you've gotten!_

Stretching slowly, Erik's brow creased in surprise. He felt…well, _good_, for lack of a better word. Certainly, his bruises, hands, and groin still ached, but his joints and back weren't complaining as they had for almost ten years now. Flexing his hands as much as he could in the bandages, he was shocked when his arthritis didn't flair.

Sitting on the edge of the bed in the dark, Erik removed his mask and ran a hand through his hair in wonder. _Had I known electrocution was so good for the system, I would have begun a regimen of it years ago_.

Lying down gently on the bed, he wondered briefly if he would sleep. The dream began almost instantly.

He recognized the endless depths of the library instantly. _You still have to find that book_, he reminded himself, and he took off walking swiftly through the rows, his footsteps echoing crisply through the empty building.

"**Your hands are still bleeding."** The specter appeared moving at his side suddenly; Erik stopped and glanced down to see that his hands indeed were bleeding freely through the old bandages. The figure moved around to stand before him.

"What's going on?" he asked it.

The specter began to remove the bandages from his hands; Erik did not pull away. **"I told you,"** it said finally. **"The original equation is no longer valid. Changes had to be made in order for balance to be achieved."**

"What kind of changes?"

The figure was applying new wrappings now. **"You had to be changed"** it answered cryptically. **"Your health is required for the Living Receiver to perform the task."**

Erik was very tired of esoteric answers, and he pulled his hands away from the specter. "What do you mean 'my health'? You tell me why I'm here," he demanded angrily.

The figure gave no reaction to his outburst. **"You are the Artifact," **was its simple answer.

To Be Continued...

A/N: Ok, so those of you familiar with Donnie Darko should start recognize what's going on. If you haven't seen Donnie Darko, I highly recommend seeing the film. It made my brain go "Whoa."


	5. Though We're Strangers 'Till Now

**Chapter Five: Though We're Strangers Till Now**

"_And I hang like a star,  
Fucking glow in the dark,  
For all those staring eyes to see,  
Like the ones we've wished on.  
But now I'm confused.  
Is this death really you?  
Do these dreams have any meaning?  
No.  
No, I think it is more like a ghost  
That has been following us both  
Something vague that we are not seeing,  
Something more like a feeling."_

_"Something Vague" by Bright Eyes_

Erik had not woken to sunlight on his face in over twenty years. The warmth of it was disconcerting, but not unpleasant. He stared blankly at the pale ceiling above him and tried to make sense of his dream. The specter had called him "The Artifact"; _What could it possibly mean?_ He rolled the word around his mind as he stretched languorously in the soft confines of the bed. _Could I be the artifact of my time?_ Erik chewed his lip thoughtfully; that thought was one of the more sensible things to occur in the last twenty-four hours.

_This is of course assuming that you're not insane_, he reminded himself. Well, he had to concede that point to himself, there was no evidence to say he wasn't. _And the fact that we're having this discussion supports it_, his inner demons chuckled. Erik frowned at sheer amount of voices that were appearing in his head, and decided that he had to distract himself.

Pulling on his now dry trousers, Erik looked around his room. His eyes lingered on the clock by the bed; it showed the exact time in glowing red numbers. He picked up the light thing and examined it closer. _Must be some trick with electricity_, he thought in admiration as he turned it over in his hand. _It's far too light for any clockwork_. Setting the mall clock back down, he turned to face the door into the bathroom. _What new surprises lie in store?_

He knocked twice and then opened the door with a small amount of trepidation. Erik's shoulders sagged in relief as he recognized the toilet and bath had only received small modifications in the past hundred years.

He found a shirt folded over the side of the bathtub and a note attached to the mirror by a thin, clear strip with an adhesive on one side; _now that's clever_, he thought idly before turning his attention to the erratic, tight script.

_Erik,_

_I ran out to do some shopping and various other errands. I should be back by one, so feel free to explore the house a little bit until then. I trust you to be smart enough not to poke anything metal into the electric sockets, or start a fire, but if you take ANYTHING apart without knowing exactly what it is, what it does, and how to put it back together, I'll kill you._

_Ben_

_ps: Hope the shirt works; it's all I had. We'll work out something better later._

He raised his eyebrows at the threat of death; _well, now I'm very curious about this house of oddities._ Next, he examined the shirt Ben had put out for him. It was a soft material in a dark brick red that he approved of. He pulled it on over his head as the small buttons stopped ten centimeters down from the almost non-existent collar. The sleeves were far too short, but he rolled them up to his elbow to hide the fact. Tucking the blasted thing in as best he could, Erik regarded himself in the mirror.

The soft material hung loosely on his thin frame making him appear all the more skeletal. _Beggars cannot complain_, he reminded himself as he ran a bandaged hand through his corbeau hair.

He froze in mid-motion and stared hard at his reflection. There was something different about his hair, and it took him several moments to realize what it was. He'd started getting grey hair since he'd hit what he guessed to be his fifties, and since then it had spread steadily across his scalp.

And now it was gone. Completely. His hair was as dark and full has it had been when he was in his prime.

**You had to be changed. Your health is required.**

The specter's voice echoed through his mind like a death sentence Interesting contrast to his sudden health.. He unwrapped the bandages around his hands with a calm kind of dread. His knuckles and palms were lined with crimson stripes from his wounds, but not age. He flexed his fingers and felt a familiar power flow through them; he had come to hate these alabaster hands.

Looking for further evidence, Erik pulled up the front of his shirt and examined the taut, muscular belly in the mirror jaw agape in shock. _It cannot be true!_

Finally, he took a shuddering breath and pulled his mask away. His face was still as ugly as the day he had been born, but it was not old. Judging by the tightness of the skin that stretched down from his cheekbones, and the faint hint of crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, Erik knew that he must be anywhere between thirty and thirty-five. At his physical peak once more.

Any other man his age would have cheered, danced, and gone running out to embrace his newfound youth in a bold new world. Erik, however, was hit with the irrational urge to weep. Good stuff.

He'd waited SO long to die! He'd tempted fate and men equally to take his wretched life, and STILL he had lived. He should've died from an infection in his youth because of his twisted flesh, but God had cursed him with almost miraculously good health and longevity! And finally—FINALLY—his body had aged and his heart had grown weak. He had felt Death following over his shoulder, and welcomed her presence as he would an old friend.

Now even that had been stolen from him!

Erik raged at the unfairness of it all and slammed his fist in to the tiled wall with a roar. The bright flash of pain that surged up his arm washed away the blinding anger and cleared his mind. He took a deep steadying breath and ran his throbbing knuckles over the cracked tiles he had hit. Acting like a child would not help him understand his bizarre situation any better, he reminded himself.

The specter had spoken of an equation. What was an equation except a logic problem, a riddle? There was no riddle on earth that Erik could not solve when he put his keen mind to it. All he needed was the proper knowledge.

With a new purpose to focus on, or at least a sufficient distraction, Erik replaced his mask and walked into the living room.

His gaze settled on a large black box with a black glass front panel that the sofa faced. Moving over he placed his hand on the matte surface; it had the texture of etched glass, but not the density. He made a mental note to ask Ben about it later. Along the bottom of the dark glass panel, there was a row of buttons. He cautiously pushed the one marked 'Power'.

The device sprang to life instantly, and Erik jumped back slightly in surprise as noise and color suddenly filled the screen. Figures of near perfect photographic quality and crisp clear sound followed their every movement. A disembodied female voice was prattling on about some product to be bought or another, but Erik's focus was on the tight, thin bodies of the women that laughed as they moved through an indoor market. _So pants are part of a woman's daily wardrobe now_. He couldn't say he minded that much as he allowed his eyes to roam freely over the lithe forms before him.

Leaning extremely close to the glass panel, he could see that the images were created by thousands of red, green, and blue lights, each one only slightly bigger than the head of a pin.

_Clever_, he thought in awe, running the backs of his fingers over the glass. A tingle of static electricity sent goose bumps up his arm.

Thirty seconds later, he felt like a perverse voyeur and turned the apparently pointless machine off.

Looking around the room, all of the other machines seemed far more daunting than the viewing device, each one covered in an almost obscene amount of dials and buttons.

Out of nowhere a surge of hunger rushed over him, and Erik suddenly realized that he hadn't eaten in four days. _Well, technically it's been over a hundred years_, he thought with a frown as he wondered into the kitchen to face the possible horrors the that lay in the icebox.

He was greatly relieved when he recognized most of the items inside, despite the foreign packaging. Glancing back, his eyes lit up when he noticed a large bowl of fresh, bright tangerines. He hadn't been able to get good tangerines in over forty years, not since Persia. That made up his mind; he pulled a bottle of red wine out of the icebox and set it on the counter to warm slightly while he hunted for a plate.

Seven minutes later, he set his prizes down on the small desk in his room, shut the door, and locked it. It was totally in keeping with his current streak of luck that he would have been sent through time with his least practical mask, the one solely designed to terrify. It hindered his breathing significantly, and there was no way to eat with it on. So until he worked out a way to cut some of the leather away, this would be how he'd have to take his meals.

Digging his fingers into the fleshy peel of a tangerine, Erik couldn't stop a flash of contentment as he felt the long forgotten sting of citric acid on his fingers.

All in all, he had been in far worse situations. Certainly, he had never been in a stranger circumstance, but he could sense no immediate danger. He slipped a piece of the fruit into his mouth and popped it with his teeth letting the sweet juice gush over his tongue.

When Ben returned, Erik decided he would question her on…well, _everything_ about this new world, and once he was equipped with the proper knowledge, he would be able attack the question of how he would return to Paris and get on the business of killing himself properly and be done with everything before something else fantastical happened, like being wished away to the Goblin King.


End file.
